


Gods of their world

by enfantdivine



Category: Natural Born Killers (1994), The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-13
Updated: 2015-05-13
Packaged: 2018-03-30 10:12:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3932884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enfantdivine/pseuds/enfantdivine





	Gods of their world

The setting sun glazes his eyes golden. If the world saw him now, they’d kneel in front of him and pray, in hope that he’ll have mercy. They’d build him churches, give him names, cover his altars with their blood, worship and fear him like they should. They’d understand – and so would he, at last – his role, his hollowed nature. They’d bare their throats for him to tear up, and he would never have to hunt them to take what’s his by right, not ever again.

Until they do though, they’ll show him fear without worship and die at his hand unwillingly, cursing his name. But he won’t care. He enjoys the hunting too much.

“Do you have dreams, Mickey?” he asks out of the blue, alone in the porch swing, still like a sculpture. He looks so strange, unlike himself, as if he’s frozen in a moment, in a rare instance of peacefulness that Mickey knows won’t last.

“Like when I sleep?”

“No. Like when you make a wish and hope it comes true.”

Mickey pushes away from the door frame where he’s been standing and walks towards him with a lenient snicker. “What’s up with that?” He sinks into the shabby swing right next to Vilmer, waiting for his answer. “Read that shit somewhere or what?”

Vilmer smirks unashamed and stops staring into the distance, his attention caught by the man near him. “You know how people never wanna die? When their time comes, I mean?” he begins to explain after a few seconds of word-searching. Mickey nods, curious. “It’s ‘cause they have dreams, can you believe it? I asked at least a dozen, that the answer I got most times. I ain’t got no dreams, Mickey, never did. Not one.”

Mickey takes a mouthful of beer from the bottle he’s holding and gives Vilmer a sympathetic smile. He knows what he’s talking about. He still remembers those times when hopeful aspirations prevented him from seeking death, but those were part of his becoming, the same way Vilmer’s questions are part of his own. “Men like us don’t need no dreams,” he says. Someday, Vilmer will acknowledge it for himself, what he’s always felt in his bones and hasn’t been able to name – why he kills, why it feels right. If he needs help with that, well, that’s what Mickey’s there for. “We want somethin’, we reach out and grab it, don’t we?”

“We don’t waste no time,” Vilmer agrees, and his face lights up from within when the realization strikes him.

“Don’t listen to them dyin’ folks no more,” Mickey advises, “they ain’t like you and me. You ready for tonight?” he asks him, sweetly, like a lover. It’s nice to have someone to talk this way to, he thinks, someone to care about, and sometimes he feels he lucked out in that regard. Most people look for the right company all their lives – a best friend, a soul mate, a partner in crime. He found all these in Vilmer, and he didn’t even realize he was looking.

But then again, Mickey is not most people.

Vilmer pushes his feet against the porch’s wooden rail to make the swing move back and forth. “As I’ll ever be,” he replies, and the grin he gives the other is beautiful and vicious like everything about him. “I’m gettin’ this feelin’,” he says, staring at Mickey with the purest joy, “we’re gonna meet an interesting one this time.”

“That right, baby?” Mickey smiles, happy to see him happy. He gives him his beer, knowing he wants it before Vilmer even asks for it, and watches him taking a swig with so much zest Mickey can feel the liquid’s bitter fizz on his own tongue.

“Uh-huh,” Vilmer smacks his lips with a nod of his head, “gonna keep us up all night. You’ll see.”

“Well, better be right, sunshine. We could do with some excitement ‘round here.”

Vilmer drinks from the bottle again, not letting Mickey out of his sight. In fact, by the way he looks at him, one would imagine he has just found a new side of Mickey’s face he hasn’t seen before, and that he’s not prepared to focus on anything else for another hour at least. He reminds Mickey of the little boy he met at the convenience store not a week ago, who gaped at him for minutes from his mother’s arms with eyes so pure they saw into his soul. You shouldn’t look away from such a stare unless you have something to hide, so Mickey didn’t, like he doesn’t now.

“Why don’tcha ride with me tonight?” Vilmer asks all of a sudden, his expression changing slightly as if the thought has just occurred to him. “Let Walter be the lookout for a change, hmm?”

“You sure? Don’t mean to brag, but I might be better than your brother at that job,” Mickey says, almost surprised.  There’s nothing he wants more than to say yes, but on the other hand, to let a whim ruin their plans can’t be the smartest move. "Besides, I thought the truck was  _your_ thing."

“Could be your thing too. _Our_ thing,” the younger man purrs, leaning in closer. His teeth graze fleetingly over his bottom lip. “Walter’ll do fine.”

“Put it like this, baby, you could convince just about anyone to get in that goddamn truck of yours,” Mickey chuckles. With a lazy hand, he pushes back a lock of hair from Vilmer’s forehead, too lost in his raw charm to even think about closing the space between their mouths.

“That a yes then?”

Mickey confirms with one brief nod. “But don’t blame me if shit goes wrong. I tried to talk you out of it, despite myself.”

“I won’t,” Vilmer says, his voice a promise, and then he grins again before he pulls away. He sits back in the swaying swing, in silent contemplation of the forest that comes alive with eerie sounds as night approaches. Mickey can’t look away from him, and doesn’t want to either. He doesn’t have to touch him to feel his inner all-consuming flame. Darkness is slowly taking over, but Vilmer’s gaze somehow retains its daylight glow. Still, no one’s there to see his eyes of gold and understand – no one except Mickey, but Mickey needs no evidence. He already knows they're two of a kind.


End file.
